Caspian's POV
I punch the wall so hard my knuckles split open.
Blood drips onto the marble floor of my office. The pain barely registers. Nothing registers except the look on Isla's face when she accused me of trying to kill her.
She thinks I did it. She actually thinks I'm capable of murder.
My phone rings. Liam's name flashes on the screen.
"What?" I answer, my voice raw.
"The police just left my office. They're asking questions about you. About your cars. About where you were the night Isla got hit." Liam's voice is tense. "Caspian, please tell me you didn't do something incredibly stupid."
"I didn't hit her with my car!"
"Then why do the police think you might have?"
"Because someone's setting me up." I pace my office, leaving bloody footprints. "My black SUV was stolen two days before the accident. I filed a report. It's on record. But someone's making it look like I was involved."
"Who would do that?"
"I don't know. Natasha Monroe? Derek Ashford? Someone who wants Isla to think I'm dangerous." I grab a towel and wrap it around my bleeding hand. "The detective called me an hour ago. Asked me to come in for questioning tomorrow."
"Don't go without a lawyer."
"I'm not guilty—"
"Doesn't matter. Someone's trying to frame you for attempted murder. Get a lawyer. Now." Liam pauses. "Does Isla know your car was stolen?"
"No. She won't let me near her. She thinks I'm a monster."
"Can you blame her? You treated her like garbage at the wedding. Now someone tries to kill her with a car that matches yours. What would you think?"
I know he's right. But it doesn't make the situation any less infuriating.
"I need to talk to her. Need to explain—"
"She won't listen. Not right now. She's terrified." Liam's voice softens. "Give her time. Get your lawyer. Prove you're innocent. Then try to fix things."
He hangs up, and I'm alone with my guilt and rage.
Someone is destroying my life. And Isla's. And they're doing a damn good job of it.
It's midnight when I find myself standing outside Isla's door.
I don't know why I'm here. Don't know what I think I'll accomplish. But I can't stop thinking about her. About how scared she looked. About how she thinks I want to hurt her.
I raise my hand to knock, then stop.
Because I hear crying.
Soft, broken sobs that make my chest feel like it's being crushed.
She's crying. Alone in her room. Terrified of the person standing right outside her door.
My hand falls to my side.
I should leave. Should go back to my room and let her be. But I can't move. Can't walk away from the sound of her pain.
"Isla," I say quietly through the door. "I know you're awake. I know you don't want to talk to me. But please, just listen."
The crying stops. I hear movement. Footsteps approaching the door.
But she doesn't open it.
"My SUV was stolen three days ago," I say to the closed door. "I filed a police report. The detective has the paperwork. I wasn't driving the car that hit you. I would never—" My voice cracks. "I would never hurt you. No matter what you think of me."
Silence.
"I know I was cruel at the wedding. I know I said terrible things. I was wrong about you. About everything." I press my forehead against the door. "But I'm not a killer. I'm just an idiot who judged you without knowing you. And I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry."
More silence.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "Go away, Caspian."
The words hurt more than they should.
"Isla—"
"I said go away. I don't believe you. I don't trust you. And I don't want you near me." Her voice is stronger now. Angry. "You investigated me. You called me a gold-digger. You made me feel worthless. And now you expect me to believe you're innocent? After everything?"
"Yes. Because I am innocent."
"Or maybe you're just a good liar." I hear her move away from the door. "Leave me alone. If you really want to help me, just stay away."
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, feeling like the worst person alive.
She's right not to trust me. I gave her every reason to hate me. And now, when she needs someone to believe in, I'm the last person she'd choose.
I walk back to my room, my hand throbbing, my chest tight with something I refuse to name.
The next morning, I'm at the police station with my lawyer.
Detective Chen sits across from us, looking tired. "Mr. Steele, where were you on the night of October fifteenth between eight and nine PM?"
"At my office. Working late. My assistant can confirm it." I slide over a folder. "Security footage shows me entering the building at seven PM and leaving at ten. Time-stamped."
The detective reviews the documents, his expression neutral. "And your vehicle?"
"Was stolen from the Steele Industries parking garage on October thirteenth. I filed a report that same day." My lawyer pushes forward another document. "Here's the police report. Here's the insurance claim. My client's vehicle was recovered in Queens on October sixteenth, the day after Miss Monroe's accident."
"Convenient timing."
"Convenient for whoever stole my car and used it to try to kill someone." I lean forward. "Detective, I understand I'm a suspect because of my vehicle. But I have an alibi. I have documentation. And I would never hurt Isla Monroe."
"Even though you accused her of being a gold-digger at your father's wedding? Even though multiple witnesses heard you tell her she wasn't welcome in your home?"
My lawyer touches my arm in warning, but I ignore him.
"I was an asshole. I admit it. I said things I shouldn't have. But there's a difference between being cruel with words and trying to commit murder." I hold the detective's gaze. "Someone's setting me up. Someone who wants Isla isolated and scared. Someone who benefits from her not trusting anyone."
"Who?"
"Natasha Monroe. Derek Ashford. Maybe both." I pull out my phone and show him screenshots. "Someone's been texting me from unknown numbers. Messages I never responded to. But it looks like I did. Like I was communicating with Natasha."
The detective studies the messages, his frown deepening. "You think your phone was hacked?"
"I think someone's been planning this for a while. They steal my car. They hack my phone. They send messages that make it look like I'm conspiring with Natasha. Then they try to kill Isla using my vehicle. All the evidence points to me."
"Except your alibi."
"Except my alibi. Which means whoever did this didn't expect me to have proof of where I was." I lean back. "I'm being framed, Detective. And while you're wasting time investigating me, the real criminals are out there planning their next move."
Detective Chen is quiet for a long moment. Then he closes his folder.
"Your alibi checks out. But don't leave town. We may have more questions." He stands. "And Mr. Steele? If you really want to help Miss Monroe, convince her to take this seriously. She's in danger. Real danger. And she can't keep pretending she's fine."
I return to the penthouse to find chaos.
Victoria is crying in the living room. My father is on the phone, his voice sharp and commanding. And Isla is nowhere to be seen.
"What happened?" I demand.
Dad lowers the phone. "Isla's gone. She left an hour ago. Said she couldn't stay here anymore."
My heart stops. "Where did she go?"
"She didn't say. Just packed a bag and left." Victoria wipes her eyes. "I tried to stop her, but she was so scared. So convinced someone here was going to hurt her."
She means me. She was scared of me.
"We need to find her," I say immediately. "If Natasha and Derek are still out there—"
"The police are looking for her. They've been trying to call, but her phone is off." Dad's face is grim. "Caspian, I know you two got off on the wrong foot. But if you know anything—"
"I don't. She won't talk to me." Guilt and fear twist in my gut. "But I'll find her. I'll bring her back safely."
I'm already moving toward the door when Victoria calls out, "Caspian, wait. She said something strange before she left. She said, 'Tell Caspian I know about Natasha. I know they're working together. And I'm going to end this myself.'"
Ice floods my veins. "Working together? What does that mean?"
"I don't know. But she seemed certain. Almost desperate."
My phone buzzes. A text from unknown number with a photo attachment.
I open it and my blood runs cold.
It's Isla. Walking alone on a dark street. The photo was taken minutes ago.
The text below says: She came to us. How thoughtful. Now we can finish what we started. Don't bother looking for her, Caspian. By the time you figure out where we are, it'll be too late. - N
Another text comes through. An address in the Bronx. An abandoned warehouse.
And a final message: Come alone if you want to see her alive. Bring police and she dies. You have one hour.